


rough trade

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Theon Greyjoy, Ellaria dies instead of Oberyn, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Happy and Confident!Theon Greyjoy, Hooker AU - mistaken for a prostitute, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oberyn/Various others is implied, Older Man/Younger Man, Robb and Jon and Theon go to King's Landing with Ned, Sorry but I prefer to write about one pairing per character, The Dornish are still all about free love tho, Theon in Dorne, Theon-centric, Theon/Various women is implied, Top Oberyn Martell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-12-25 06:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18255665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: "I cannot believe you agreed to go back with him, and live as some kind of... kept boy," said Robb, in stark disbelief."Did you just call me a whore, Stark?""I cannot believe you're fucking a Prince of Dorne!" said Robb, a repeated refrain since he'd found out. "You've never even looked at a man twice! How in the Seven Hells do you go from listening to his damned improper, suggestive conversation, to spread out on the man's bed?""It's not my fault you've never learnt to seduce anyone Robb, but it's no use getting jealous now," said Theon airily, continuing to pack up his trunk. "I might have given you a kiss or two, had you made any sort of effort to win me over."Robb spluttered indignantly, mortified at the idea, whilst Jon began to cry with silent laughter, muffled into his closed fist.~Like any hot-blooded man in King's Landing with enough gold in his coin purse, Theon Greyjoy frequents Baelish's whorehouses. But in all the time he's indulged himself in such establishments, he can safely say he's never been mistaken for a worker before.





	1. Chapter 1

Since arriving in the Capital, Theon had been thrilled with the majesty of it all. Alright, so the city itself stank of shit, and the rank odour of a million unwashed paupers, but the Red Keep was grander than any of his wildest imaginings, and the food and wine flowed generously. He was afforded a room as lovely as Robb or Sansa’s, in the Tower of the Hand. Though he wasn’t well known at court, he was always treated as befitting a lord of his status. It was a stark contrast to the cold familiarity the Northmen offered him, and Theon hadn’t realised how lacking their warmth was, until he was surrounded by golden-headed Lannisters, who treated everyone with the same lofty disdain. But the rest of court; the Stormlords and Reach and Crownlands men mingled politely, too poncy by half, but equally afraid of offending anyone who might at any time hold greater favour with the King. Theon quickly made friends amongst the other young men who favoured bows over swords, and enjoyed some friendly competition with them at the targets.

Theon had already decided he was going to petition Robert Baratheon to be allowed to remain in the Red Keep as a ward of the Crown, or well-treated hostage if it came down to that, when Robb and the others went home. The heat of the Capital was stifling, but he'd grown used to the cold of the North; over time, he would acclimatise to the heat also. Theon counted his lucky stars that Cersei Lannister had kicked up such a fuss when Ned Stark had decided Sansa was too young to be betrothed yet, and had offered Robb for little Mrycella instead, affording them all the chance to travel so far South.

The sour Queen had insisted that Mrycella was too young to be parted from court, and as a Princess should be offered a range of suitors. Cersei did not trust that Robb Stark was worthy of her daughter, and made it known that she could not allow the match until she had a measure of the man in question. Robert was livid, but his advisors seemed to calm him and perhaps agree with the Queen. Theon supposed that many lords and ladies in the Capital were well known to the royals, and would have expected to be the first pick for a match to the Princess. It was well known that the North kept themselves separate from rest of the realm, following more ancient customs and an older religion. The only other places so isolated from the South’s rhythm of life were the Iron Islands and Dorne, and even the crazy Dornish followed the Seven. It was little wonder the court was leery of giving away their Princess to a far-flung region rarely visited nor affected by the goings on by that same court. It made sense that the Queen was hedging her bets.

So while Robb had been dragged along to be scrutinised by the Queen, Jon and Theon had been roped in to accompany him, as his companions. Men at court needed attendants of similar rank, to look after their household and sit with them during courtly activities. The high ladies had their own companions also; the Lady Margaery had certainly arrived with a whole drove of them from the Reach. Her twittering ladies-in-waiting included the demure Mira Forrester, a sensible Northwoman who had been fostered in Highgarden. She was eager to befriend the Stark children, and was most often seen in the company of Lady Sansa, whom Lady Margaery had evidently hoped to form a friendship with. This became clear when Margaery and her grandmother, the fittingly titled ‘Queen of Thorns’ Olenna Tyrell, suggested that Sansa might like to visit Highgarden herself. Like many other grand Houses, the Tyrells had turned up at court looking to win Mrycella for their own future lord, since Cersei had not allowed for an official betrothal between her and Robb yet. It seemed obvious that Margaery had been sent to court to win Prince Joffrey for herself, now that it was clear Sansa was not on the table for him.  
  
Sansa had been pouty and miserable for weeks after Ned Stark had blocked her chance at being a Princess and future Queen. But she seemed to become as relieved as the rest of them, when Joffrey’s true colours shone through ever the clearer on the journey South.

"He’s so utterly rude," she huffed one afternoon, "Princes should be polite and charming!"

Robb rejoiced that she had come to her senses at last, and Theon had raised a toast that the ordeal had come to an end. After that disillusionment, Sansa had rallied, and become utterly devoted to finding herself a suitable husband. Once they reached King’s Landing and she could peruse the lords on offer, she was tireless in her pursuit. Though the lords and heirs to Great Houses were sorely lacking, Sansa made a valiant effort with Renly Baratheon, who seemed bemused by the child dogging his steps. Sansa sent raven after raven to Lady Catelyn asking her advice, on who out of the other courtiers might be a sound choice.

Sansa had certainly been amusing herself, flitting between youth after youth, charming every young man from across the Seven Kingdoms that she could. After the attentions of Lady Margaery on behalf of her brother, the crippled Ser Willas, Sansa now claimed herself half in love with the ‘tragically wounded’ knight, and mooned over him constantly. At first, Sansa had been too distracted by Ser Loras Tyrell, who was actually present at court, to pick up on the hints Margaery was dropping about the actual heir available. Robb had gently suggested that the heir of a Great House was a far more sensible choice than a son without a seat. When Sansa had shown no hint of understanding, he had been forced to tell her outright, of the attachment between Loras and Renly, and why her attentions toward Renly had gone unheeded.

"Oh!" Sansa had cried, "How utterly tragic! To be cursed by the gods to love in an unnatural manner, knowing you must always be parted, and wed another someday!"

To Robb’s horror, Sansa had gone immediately to offer her consolation and support to Renly and Loras, who had probably never had their relationship discussed openly to their face by another. After it was clear that Sansa’s words were meant with heartfelt kindness, for she could not stop herself from waxing on about the god’s cruelty and the tragic nature of their love, and how it was all so much like a song, she had eventually secured herself two genuine friendships with the perplexed but charmed young lords.

Jon had been similarly accosted and entertained by the lesser daughters of smaller Houses. Those girls who relied on their own charms rather than their father’s name to gain a husband. The bastard had been overlooked at Winterfell where Robb was the prime cut. But here in the Capital there were many delights on offer, and the girls vyed for favour from the lords with the largest castle and loftiest lineage. The daughter of a landed knight could hardly do better than a by-blow of a Great House; especially one favoured enough by his father to be brought into the court of the King.

Theon could not say he had lacked for female attention either. He had certainly been flocked to whenever there was to be dancing, as he was graceful and rarely mis-stepped onto vulnerable toes. Still, he knew better than to dip his wick in the grand daughters of haughty Southron lords, who were liable to take mighty offense over it. And as Jon was fond of reminding him, bastards born of two highborn Houses had to be acknowledged and provided for. Theon didn’t fancy appealing to the stern Lord Stark for a fostering, on behalf of some Southron wench. Far better to stick with the women he had the greater knowledge of; whores.

Like any hot-blooded man in King's Landing with enough gold in his coin purse, Theon Greyjoy frequented Baelish's luxurious whorehouses. The girls were clean and the furnishings sumptuous. He even wheedled a minor discount out of Ros, for old time’s sake, and could count on her friendship too. She told him which girls were worth the extra coin and which to avoid, who was skilled at what and the best times to be sure his favourites were not busy. As well as hunting in the Kingswood with the royal party, taking lunch on the terrace and shooting fowl with splendid backdrop of the views across the Blackwater, Theon trotted about the Street of Silk and had a jolly good time. But in all the time he'd indulged himself in such establishments, he could safely say he'd never been mistaken for a worker before.

One afternoon, when Theon was re-dressing after an encounter with a buxom-chested natural blonde, who had to slink off as soon as they were done for another customer, the door reopened, and in sauntered Oberyn Martell. Theon paused; not quite sure what the etiquette was, when you encountered Dornish royalty for the first time, with your cock out. Theon hadn’t bothered with a long undershirt since enjoying the blistering heat of King’s Landing. His short tunic only skimmed his waist, leaving rather more on display than he felt comfortable with, in the presence of another lord. He’d gone swimming with Robb and Jon of course, but they’d grown up with one another. A stranger from Dorne was another thing all together. Deciding to brazen it out, well aware of the Dornish reputation for being highly-sexed and unfazed by all manner of unusual relationships, Theon cocked his hip and raised a brow saucily.

"Can I help you, my lord?"

"You might," said Oberyn, with a lick of his lips.

They had never spoken before, though Theon had of course been aware of his presence in the Capital. He doubted the knowledge was reciprocated. Theon remained in the background of the courtly intrigue, having no great design in his presence there. He had little interest in catching the attention of the King and Queen who were both miserable cunts, and had no love for Theon's people besides. But Oberyn was a prominent lord and given all due deference at court.

Like the Tyrells, the Martells had sent out an alternative to Robb for Myrcella, in the form of the youngest heir of Prince Doran. He’d been accompanied to King's Landing by his unconventional uncle, the famed Red Viper Oberyn. The legendary spear-fighter had caused quite the scandal arriving with his ‘paramour’ in tow; a bastard woman who shared his bed. Theon had expected licentious behaviour from such a man, and he had not been disappointed. By all accounts, Oberyn's dissolute manner of speech had caused many an anxious father to lead their wayward daughters out of his presence, lest they be drawn in by his lusty conversation. It had been a source of amusement for him and Robb to watch protesting, pouty girls be sheltered by harried lords. All while Oberyn smirked. It was not so funny now, to be caught and held by that smouldering gaze, with nothing and no one else to protect Theon from it. He manfully resisted the urge to squirm like a babe caught pilfering treats.

"And what can I offer a lord such as yourself?" asked Theon, not quite taking into his account their surroundings, and how his words might be misconstrued.

He was used to offering his service and attention to the other lords. It was the expected way to behave in court.

"Many things, I expect," said the Prince, sashaying across the room sensually, unable to keep himself from being naturally predatory.

Theon’s heart leapt into his chest, suddenly reminded of the vicious rumours about Dornishmen and women. How they were all disgustingly lose, hopping between bed-partners, uncaring if the current occupant was male or female. For the first time, Theon wondered seriously if the rumours were true. He resisted the urge to laugh nervously, and cover himself or step back. Any such movement would be a show of weakness, and Ironborn men were not weak. Theon held his ground, casting his uninvited visitor a challenging look. He wasn’t ashamed of his body. Let the Dornishman laugh about it with his attendants later, how he’d caught Balon’s only living son with his breeches off, if he liked.

"I haven’t seen you around here before," said Oberyn smoothly, "I would have remembered."

Theon thought it an odd thing to remark upon, as clientele rarely met at an establishment as professional as this. He was about to say so, when Oberyn stepped startlingly close. Theon was still standing in only his tunic, clutching his smallclothes stupidly. He twitched, making a move as though continue clothing himself.

"Don’t," said Oberyn, "Why bother?"

"Wha-" Theon began, intending to ask the man his meaning, for how could he return to the Red Keep half-dressed and unshod?

But it all became clear when the older man grasped the back of his head and drew him into a forceful kiss. The expert nature of the kiss was Theon’s justification for being quite unable to resist, when the man ploughed his open mouth. The hand not tangled in Theon's hear clutched at one of his naked buttocks, eliciting an embarrassed squeak from Theon, who had never been handled so persuasively. Whores weren’t passive, but they certainly didn’t manhandle him in such a way. It was only when the other man began pressing him toward the featherbed, as though he intended to spread Theon out upon it, that he regained his senses. Breaking away from those insistent lips, Theon panted out; "Wait-" meaning to decline the unwelcome attentions, before the situation could devolve further.

Oberyn took the opportunity to suckle on the sensitive spot behind Theon’s ear, the tickle of his thin beard bizarre but not uncomfortable against Theon’s pale neck.

"I-" Theon attempted again before breaking off into a whine as Oberyn began fondling the head of his cock.

He was shockingly hard, as though he hadn’t gotten off in days, and not less than a half-hour ago. Theon supposed it was the unexpected unfamiliarity of it. He’d always been instrumental in his encounters before. Never sat back and let the woman do all the work for him. It was a shock to his system, to be directed about, and have a man take charge of him as though he were a common harlot. Before Theon quite registered what was happening, Oberyn had abandoned his cock and was palming his flat and defined stomach, pushing up his silk tunic as though he meant to take it off.

"Wait," Theon insisted this time, pressing against a strongly muscled chest, able at last to step back.

Before he could truly clear his head from the unexpected assault on his senses, Oberyn was distracting him again by pressing a thumb to Theon’s plump lower lip. It was no doubt swollen from their rough kisses.

"I’m sure you’re wildly expensive, given a mouth like this," Oberyn murmured.

Theon blushed horribly, realising at last why the Dornishman had felt so confident taking such liberties with his person. Before he could try and rectify the appalling mistake, Oberyn continued;

"You know who I am, hmm?"

Reluctantly, Theon nodded. He was too stupefied to do much else. Oberyn had managed to retain a clasp on him, his hand sliding up Theon’s back when he was pressed away. Now, that proprietary hand slid south again, resting confidently on Theon’s arse.

"Then you know I can afford it, sweetling," Oberyn finished smoothly, and Theon whimpered at the endearment, somehow made sensual and not ridiculous, in the other man’s accent.

Theon barely resisted when the older lord resumed tugging on his tunic, distracted by the thumb rubbing his cock again gently. Only when the garment was tugged over his head, did Theon realise he’d allowed it. Feeling horribly out of his depth, Theon wasn’t allowed long to shiver in alternate fear and excitement, pressed back down to the featherbed with such confidence that it was as though the encounter had always been inevitable.

Why he allowed it to happen, Theon could not say. Perhaps it was the credence and conviction with which Oberyn directed him. As though Theon’s compliance was natural and expected. Or perhaps it was merely the distracting nature of his kisses and the skilled hand on Theon's cock, which would consume the thoughts of any man. No matter the reason, it seemed like Theon had only blinked once, and found himself at the mercy of an older, stronger, more dangerous man. Theon could only hold on in astonishment when Oberyn ducked down to tease at his navel with small nips, sliding his fingers through dark hair. The brush of Theon's hands became a tug of disbelief when the Dornish Prince took the head of his cock into his mouth, teasing Theon with his tongue.

"Ah!" Theon yelped, when he felt Oberyn rudely invade his arse with one questing finger.

"Hmm," murmured Oberyn releasing Theon’s cock with a slick popping sound, "You’re dry?"

"I- fuck- I was with a woman, previously," Theon admitted, feeling somehow foolish because of it.

A real whore would have better control of the situation; would have picked up the slick left in fancy bottles about the room. Then he chided himself for overlooking such a thing, because it was ridiculous to think he would suddenly be an expert in whoring. He didn’t leave the Red Keep expecting to have his arse plundered by lusty Dornishmen. Ros was an adventurous girl, and Theon had enjoyed the pleasures of her fingers inside him before, but not since he’d left Winterfell had he indulged in such things. He was aware of who exactly ran these brothels, and besides, none of the girls here had offered.

"No matter," Oberyn said to the task at hand, rising up a little to reach for one of the fancy perfumed bottles of oil.

Theon was aware he could take the opportunity to wriggle free; it was evident Oberyn wouldn’t be satisfied with giving him a suck job. He ought to put a stop to this madness at once. But some mischievous inner part of his nature stayed him, luring Theon with whispers of the thrill of the forbidden. There was no denying his body was into the attentions of the older man. If he didn't think on it too hard, it would be easy to lay the blame utterly at Oberyn’s door. To simply let it happen. Theon could argue he had been swept up in momentary lusty madness. Not that anyone else could ever find out.

As though aware Theon might grow skittish again if left to ruminate, Oberyn lost no time in slicking his fingers and distracting him with another deep, consuming kiss. Through closed eyes, Theon did not see the other man dextrously unlacing his breeches one-handed, pushing them down just low enough to free his cock. Theon only moaned a little into their kiss when he was breached again, spreading his legs and tilting his hips obligingly for the questing fingers. Still, Theon wasn’t truly prepared when Oberyn lifted his right thigh, and replaced his fingers with cock, thrusting inside with no warning. Theon threw back his head with a low moan, trapping Oberyn between his squeezing thighs at the unexpected pain. His breaths were heavy pants as he lay still, pressed into the covers by the hefty weight of the man above him. Unable to quite believe he was lying abed with another man’s cock inside of him. With a sudden horrifying clarity, Theon realised his Father would slit his throat if he ever found out.

Gradually, Theon became aware Oberyn was hushing him; stroking one gentle hand down Theon’s flank as though he were a skittish horse. With a soft whimper, Theon wrapped his legs together about Oberyn’s back, hoping it might help to ease the strain. He wasn’t sure if it worked, as the Dornishman pressed deeper, and Theon realised with a detached sort of horror that there was more cock to come. Slow but relentless, Oberyn thrust deeply into him, until Theon could feel his balls brushing against his arse. He began to rock inside Theon with slow but forceful thrusts.

"Drowned God!" Theon panted in disbelief. If he was in a japing mood, he might have asked if the other man kept an oar between his legs.

Pulling back to a kneel, resting Theon’s thighs against his own, Oberyn gave him a searching look.

"There are not many here who would appeal to such a god," he noted, continuing to thrust powerfully, "Though I have seen the Drowned Men at the Harbour, your god is not well-loved outside the Iron Islands."

How he could speak in such coherent sentences whilst breaking Theon’s world apart, the younger man did not know. Theon could barely keep from drooling, so lax was his control. The pain was giving way to pleasure now, but not fast enough for his liking.

"I’m Ironborn," Theon admitted, sex making him stupid enough to blurt out the truth.

"I’m glad of it," said Oberyn cheekily, "Now I have only to bed a Northman, and I will have 'made the eight'."

"Seven Hells!" Theon whined at a particularly rough thrust, which brought a sharper pain than he was comfortable with.

"I do not think that a cry of pleasure, lovely one," said Oberyn, unheeding of Theon’s embarrassment at being termed so, "Should you prefer to sit astride? You can control the pace."

"I don’t know," Theon admitted, stymied by his inexperience in this whole area.

Oberyn rolled them carefully, mindful not to slip out as he clutched Theon’s thighs tight to his body, and settled onto his back. His Dornish surcoat revealed a fully unlaced shirt beneath, and the two layers fell open completely as the clasp was jolted asunder with their movements, revealing an expanse of smooth golden skin.

Feeling horribly exposed, Theon sunk his knees into the featherbed below them, slipping his hands down to rest on Oberyn’s toned stomach for balance. Gaining his bearings, Theon gave an experimental roll of his hips, sucking in a sharp breath with the jolt of pleasure it brought. Unable to deny himself, he slid further down the cock he was sitting on, groaning in disbelief at how much better it was already. Slowly, Theon worked out how best to move his hips, to make the glide smooth and easy and satisfying. Theon couldn’t believe no one had ever told him how good it would be, to get fucked. Gods, he could have been doing this for years.

"That’s it," said Oberyn encouragingly, directing Theon’s hips with sure hands as he began to bounce.

Soon Theon was sliding up only to slip down again, in a rolling, sensual rhythm that quickly picked up in pace. He bobbed up and down, focused entirely in keeping Oberyn’s cock scraping over that place inside him that made his head swim, unconcerned with his neglected cock. His hot, clammy hands scraped angry red lines down Oberyn’s belly viciously. The older man simply grunted in mild irritation, responding with a stinging slap to Theon’s arse, causing his hole to clench tighter.

"Fuck!" Theon exclaimed, throwing his head back as his toes curled with pleasure, squeezing his eyes closed as several hot tears slipped out.

Oberyn clutched Theon’s hips, thrusting up sharply to accompany Theon’s slide down, driving him mad with pleasure. Theon groaned and sobbed recklessly, uncaring of the appearance he gave, chasing his peak with a single-minded focus. Theon had never been so slatternly wanton. Slick with sweat and howling desperately, as he ground down on another man’s cock like the whore the other man believed him to be.

Theon's hurried breaths were skating close to the edge of hysterical gulps. His lack of decorum felt simultaneously ludicrous and inevitable. It felt right and natural to be so unbridled. Oberyn quietened his sobs with a firm hand on the back of his neck, dragging Theon down into a series of one, two- three rough kisses, with a biting edge of cruel teeth. Theon whined, but obligingly leaned down into them, his clammy hands fluttering about Oberyn's shoulders. Then he broke away with another high pitched whimper and leaned back, away from those temping lips. Pressing his hands to Oberyn's thighs as the other man helpfully lifted his knees, Theon continued to work his hips in a stuttering rhythm. He was growing tired, having already exerted himself with a whore of his own.

His peak, when it came, was swift and blinding, and Theon groaned like an animal in pain at the unbelievable high of it. Oberyn wasted no time in surging up to claim his lips in another vicious kiss, swallowing Theon’s moans as he came all over the other man’s stomach. For a moment, he blacked out. Then waking again, Theon found himself thrown about again. Swiftly, Theon was pressed back down into the featherbed. Oberyn wrenched his thighs high and open, holding them up as he fucked into Theon roughly. The younger man could only hang on for dear life, one hand tanged in the rucked, messy sheets, while the other wound around the wooden headboard.

Theon whimpered as his sensitive cock rubbed against Oberyn’s washboard flat stomach with every hard thrust. Panting with a lack of breath as he was violated so deliciously, until Oberyn came with a grunt, his cock twitching inside Theon as it gave up his seed. Theon shivered at the thought of it. It was delightfully disgraceful to be filled with another man's seed. Oberyn continued to be as controlling as he had from the outset, hemming Theon in with his broad arms while he regained his sensed with heavy breaths. Feeling bold and reckless in post-coital bliss, Theon grasped his handsome face with both hands, and pulled Oberyn into a long and languid kiss.

They luxuriated in one another for a while longer, before Oberyn gently pulled out, and Theon could not help but scrunch up his nose at the strange, unorthodox feeling of being left wet and stretched open. To his surprise, the Dornishman chuckled knowingly.

"Be cautious in the coming days," he warned softly, "The first time is the hardest; avoid riding on the morrow at the least."

Theon gaped up at the older man in disbelief. How could he know such a thing about him? In typical fashion, Oberyn did not afford him the opportunity to ask. With his usual command, he manoeuvred Theon to roll onto his stomach, running a possessive thumb down the crease between his buttocks. Theon choked at the dry touch, clutching the pillow beneath his face in one fist. The bastard was insatiable, it seemed. But Theon did not protest when Oberyn nudged his legs apart again.

It was a long moment after the hot wet sensation began invading his hole that Theon even knew what was happening. Theon began making a high pitched whine, without realisation of it. When he understood the sound was coming from him, Theon immediately crammed his spare fist in his mouth. Despite the initial shocking horror of it, Theon allowed himself to be licked open, seduced by the sensation. His bones seemed to melt into liquid, and time seemed to stretch out endlessly, until there was only this one connection between them and nothing else in the world.

By the time Oberyn pushed into him again, Theon was so loose and relaxed he barely managed more than a soft moan. Sometime ago his eyes had fluttered shut, and they remained so as Oberyn gently encouraged Theon onto his knees. Though his stance was shaky, this time Theon was cradled into the Dornishman's chest, affording a measure of stability. Theon's fingers clenched tightly into the bedsheets as he dropped his head deeply, choking out the occasional guttural sound.

Their second go around, Theon came with a whimper as Oberyn worked his hips steadily, rocking inside Theon, while he played with his cock idly. This third peak, Theon had but a small, pathetic spurt of seed, but he shivered and clenched down hard on the cock inside him. After that, Theon had only vague, sleep-addled memories of being held close while Oberyn took his pleasure again, and pressed kisses all along his shoulders. When he woke properly, Oberyn was fastening his belt about his waist. He smirked at Theon.

"I hope you won't take offense that I paid for your services in advance," he said.

Rubbing at his eyes, confused and exhausted, Theon sat up far enough to rest on his elbows. He wanted to protest that he wasn't a whore, but he wasn't entirely sure that was the case any longer. He opened his mouth, but not a single sensible thought came into his head, so he said nothing.

"Well, that's not entirely true," Oberyn conceded, "I paid for the room, and for the pretty blonde one to leave you early, my lord."

Swift and sure, Theon felt his stomach swoop, threatening to evacuate his body up through his mouth. While he was some mysterious whore, he was safe. But if Oberyn knew who he was...

Before Theon could choke out some no doubt ridiculous threat, the Dornish Prince leaned down and pressed another firm kiss to Theon's insensible mouth.

"Be calm," he said, "I have no interest in raising the ire of Ned Stark. None will learn of our tryst from me, lovely one."

Theon felt horribly embarrassed, feeling his cheeks heat up in humiliation, but he forced himself to nod and not make an ass of himself with some sort of false protestation. With one final touch of Theon's bruised mouth, Oberyn departed, leaving a strange combination of satisfaction and apprehension in his wake.

*

Theon rather thought, after he returned to his rooms somewhat off balance, and with a new perspective on Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell, that it would all end there.

He wasn't prepared to round the corner to his chambers less than a sennight later, to find the smouldering Dornishman waiting for him. Theon didn't even bother to protest, or pretend that he hadn't been seeing stars every night, bringing himself off to the memory of their fuck.

The second time, Theon succeeded in taking Oberyn whilst spread out on his back, raking vicious fingers though his hair as he moaned and writhed.

The third time, Oberyn coaxed him into wrapping his lips around his length. Theon doubted he would ever acquire a taste for cock, but there was something darkly satisfying in learning how to make a man shiver and swear in pleasure.

The fourth time, Theon ceased counting.

*

Their time in King's Landing had already been drawing to a close, but Theon was conscious of the days flowing by like tides on the shore. He made cautious appeals to Ned Stark about the possibilty of remaining in the Capital, but the outlook did not seem rosy. Still, it could be difficult to tell with Lord Stark, who wore much the same expression most of the time. He rather had a lot on his mind, as Robb's suit of Mrycella had finally been officially accepted.

Theon whiled away his time pleasurably, aware it was now numbered. He'd never encountered a boy whore in Winter Town, and he lamented the fact that Oberyn Martell was likely the only man he'd ever know between his thighs. The man was there presently, spearing Theon open with his talented tongue, while Theon attempted to bite off his choking cries. They couldn't be as loud as they wished here, being dangerously foolish even continuing to meet in the Red Keep. But Theon was far too invested to stop. He soon found he should have been more mindful of discovery.

"Theon-" was as much as Robb managed, after barging in without a single knock. Then he yelped in shock, and immediately scuttled off.

"Fuck!" Theon cried, "Fuck, Robb-"

He almost threw himself from the featherbed, naked as his nameday, but Oberyn caught hold of his arm and dragged him back.

"Calm yourself," he said, "If he loves you as he should, this will not alter that. Jealousy is the death of love."

"Robb doesn't love me," Theon argued.

"Doesn't he?" murmured Oberyn, before scraping his large cock over Theon's sensitive hole, rutting inside with arrogant assurance of his welcome.

Theon grumbled, unwilling to admit how much it turned him on, when Oberyn was selfish in pursuit of his own pleasure, but wrapped his arms about his lover's back as they undulated together sinfully.

And the older man was right about Robb of course; after a stilted, awkward conversation where in Robb questioned; "what was he even doing Theon, gods!" and "was that truly Oberyn bloody Martell?" they found their way back to common ground again.

*

When Ellaria Sand died, Oberyn made immediate plans to return home to Dorne with her body.

"I must look our daughters in the eye, when I tell them of the death their mother," he said.

Theon did not expect to be extended an invitation to accompany him, nor for Ned Stark to allow it. It did not take very long for Theon to choose between the icy, barren landscapes of the North, and the mysterious, fiery sands of Dorne.

"I think it’s terribly romantic," sighed Sansa dreamily, "Relocating all the way to Dorne so you are not parted from your love."

Theon didn’t have the heart to shatter her fanciful notions, by telling her it wasn’t love; Oberyn was just a very good fuck. He figured Robb would belt him if he ever alluded to shagging, in front of Sansa.

"It’s bloody ridiculous," said Robb morosely, "What on earth do you intend to _do_ there? There’s nothing but sand and rocks for miles in any direction!"

"We’re headed for the famed Water Gardens," Theon reminded him, "Which are lush and green with exotic trees, with fountains and pools, as the name suggests. I fancy I'll spend a good deal of time swimming."

Robb huffed, utterly unconvinced by Theon’s breezy acceptance of an uncertain future. He could never comprehend that the North had always held just as much uncertainty for Theon. Winterfell was not his home, a fact Robb seemed to have forgotten. He had taken it for granted that Theon would live beside him there when he ruled as its lord, but Theon never had the luxury of forgetting the sharpness of Ned Stark’s blade.

He took to stomping about in a strop, unaccountably annoyed to be losing Theon's company.

"Why, I never knew you treasured me so, Stark," Theon teased, to which Robb huffed and pouted.

Jon Snow found the entire situation, minus Ellaria's death, utterly hilarious. For once, Theon was feeling too self-satisfied to care that the bastard had the temerity to laugh at him. Jon was heading back to a life of shunned half-acceptance under Lady Catelyn's beedy eye at Winterfell. Let him have his japes; Theon was the one who had been granted the freedom to live out the coming days in freedom and debauchery.

The two Northern boys tarried in his rooms while Theon packed for his journey, donating them his old furs, which he would not need in Dorne. Jon picked over the offerings, letting out the occasional involuntary giggle whenever Robb began raging at the profanity of it all. Jon could barely seem to contain himself whenever Robb worked himself up into a tizzy. Theon noted tears prickled at his eyes when Robb began another tirade.

"I cannot believe you agreed to go back with him, and live as some kind of... kept boy," said Robb, in stark disbelief.

"Did you just call me a whore, Stark?"

"I cannot believe you're fucking a Prince of Dorne!" said Robb, a repeated refrain since he'd found out. "You've never even looked at a man twice! How in the Seven Hells do you go from listening to his damned improper, suggestive conversation, to spread out on the man's bed?"

"It's not my fault you've never learnt to seduce anyone Robb, but it's no use getting jealous now," said Theon airily, continuing to pack up his trunk. "I might have given you a kiss or two, had you made any sort of effort to win me over."

Robb spluttered indignantly, mortified at the idea, whilst Jon began to cry with silent laughter, muffled into his closed fist. At long last, when Theon was quite satisfied with his selection of thinner garments, he moved about the room gathering up trinkets and souvenirs from his stay in the Capital. Robb kicked his now closed travelling trunk petulantly.

"This is bollocks," he declared, "You can't go, Theon. It's the other end of Westeros!"

With a heavy sigh, Theon turned to face his oldest friend. Robb was no longer pouting, standing with his shoulders slumped in serious melancholy, pain glittering in his blue eyes.

"I'm going to miss you too," said Theon, closing the distance between them swiftly.

Robb clung to his pride for a moment, before sagging, deflated, into Theon's arms, heavy in his embrace. Over his shoulder, Theon saw Jon's eyes glimmering with concern and some embarrassment, witnessing such an embrace.

"You too, you miserable bugger," Theon japed, "For fuck's sake Snow, why don't you just bloody come with me? They're good with your sort in Dorne, and you might actually learn how to have some fun."

Robb jumped out of his arms, looking appalled at the thought of losing both of them.

"No!" he bellowed, "No, no, no. I won't allow it."

Jon stared at Theon in abject shock, as though he couldn't comprehend the other man's words at all. At length, he glanced between Robb and Theon, before offering Theon a helpless shrug.

"A visit then," Theon suggested, "In a year or two. I'll be settled then, and the journey will be swift by boat. You can both come- say you're building relations between the Kingdoms or some shite."

"Yeah," Robb croaked out, and Theon knew with a swift surety that he wouldn't see him again for a long time.

"Come here, you oaf," he chided, gathering the younger boy close again.

It was all rather more emotional that Theon had intended or expected, but once he was standing on a Dornish ship, ready to depart the Harbour, the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he had made the right decision.

Once they set sail, Oberyn found him on the deck, and squeezed Theon's shoulder once in friendly companionship, before letting his hand drop.

"You'll miss them, your old lovers," he said knowingly.

Theon didn't bother correcting him. He'd tried to convince Oberyn that Robb, and by extension Jon, were just platonic companions, to no avail. So he simply nodded with a wry smile, and turned away from the rapidly disappearing land, looking instead to the glittering expanse of sea and the multitude of possibilities it held.


	2. Chapter 2

Theon luxuriated on the thin silk sheets, practically purring as he melted into their warmth. A patch of sunlight had made its way past the billowing drapes handing at large doors, which were standing open, and lead out onto a private terrace. He slept irregular hours these days, staying up late to drink, sup and dance well into the hour of the wolf, before waking early. Beating the sun’s sluggish rise, and napping again for a couple of hours after luncheon, when the heat was most intolerable. Theon woke in the late afternoon that day with the same oddly calm sense of satisfaction he’d enjoyed for moons now. He became aware of what light noise had woken him, when he noticed Oberyn closing the door to their shared solar. Since arriving at the Water Gardens, they had been sharing a series of interconnected chambers, intended as family apartments for visiting guests of note. Theon had never resided in a palace that was purely a retreat, and not the home and ruling seat of a lord. It was so decadently Dornish for the Martells to have built a structure purely for indulgence, located on a beach and filled with glistening, crystal clear pools.

Oberyn crossed the room to the dressing table and glass, where Theon kept his trinkets on display, and letters in the drawers below. With a cautious fingertip, Oberyn prodded at a roughly-carved direwolf, hewn from weirwood.

“What an ugly little creature,” he said, “It’s new?”

“Mmm,” Theon mumbled, “Bran carved it for me.”

The small wooden ornament had been tied round a raven’s ankle with a tiny scroll, filled with Bran’s familiar scrawl. Robb had been writing to him regularly, and evidently Bran wanted to feel as grown up as his lordly brother, because Theon had suddenly started receiving twice as many Northern ravens. Even Sansa had written to him from Highgarden, praising every ounce of the place, from the bees on the flowers to the silverware of the table settings. Thankfully, she’d included enough about Jon trouncing poncy Reachmen in the yard, to keep her letters from being a total bore. Apparently Robb had gone absolutely spare when Jon had agreed to be her sworn shield. Though it made him smile to imagine Robb red in the face, he had no doubt the younger boy had bawled himself to sleep to be deprived of both his male companions in such close succession. It was what prompted Theon to write so often, so that Robb would know he had not forgotten him.

In response to Theon’s answer, Oberyn raised a saucy eyebrow at him.

“Another Northern lover?” he asked, and Theon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and correct him once again on the nature of his and Robb’s relationship.

“Robb’s brother,” said Theon, “A boy of ten.”

“These Starks are devoted to you,” Oberyn observed, which Theon shrugged off with a lazy roll of his shoulders.

“I was Bran’s age when Ned took me in,” he reminded the older man, who at last consented to join him on the featherbed, seating himself beside Theon’s legs. He laid a heavy hand on one of Theon’s bare ankles.

“After King Robert put down your Father’s rebellion,” Oberyn said, as though Theon could ever forget, disregarding his words about Robb.

“Slaying both my brothers in the process,” Theon snapped in reply, noting a satisfactory gleam in Oberyn’s eye, as though the older man had hoped to raise his ire purposefully.

Theon huffed, flopping back into the silken sheets, determined to recapture the relaxed mood he had woken in.

“It’s a wonderment to me,” Oberyn admitted softly, stroking Theon’s ankle with his thumb, “That you can feel so much for them, when they brought such misery to your family.”

“Rodrik and Maron brought enough misery on their own,” Theon groused, irritated. “Besides, Robb and the rest were babes when Father went to war. Bran wasn’t even _born_ yet.”

“Lord Tywin was the one who ordered the death of my sister and her innocent children,” said Oberyn stiffly, “Yet I could never trust any Lannister.”

“You never lived with any of them,” Theon countered, “And besides, the Lannisters are miserable, pompous fucks. The Imp’s alright, but none of the others have a sense of humour between them. The Starks can be dullards, because it’s always duty and honour with them, but at least you can trust them to keep their word.”

Oberyn gave him a considering look, but evidently had nothing more to add on the subject. Theon huffed, displeased by the direction their interaction had taken. Oberyn rarely pressed him into serious conversation, when there were more pleasurable routes their discussions could take.

“Are we going to waste any more talk on the dead?” said Theon, “Or are you going to fuck me?”

“Demanding minx,” Oberyn chided, but he did not fail to oblige, placing himself between Theon’s welcoming thighs, which were not as milk-pale as they used to be.

Theon had been sleeping in his smallclothes, and Oberyn didn’t bother to remove them, fondling the head of Theon’s half-hard cock through the slippery material, smearing wet slick. Theon hummed in satisfaction, drawing the other man down into his embrace for a wet, sloppy kiss, biting down on Oberyn’s lip when he was breached by two fingers. Still loose from their early morning fuck, Theon obligingly wriggled free from his scant strip of clothing, before hooking one leg about Oberyn’s waist. Taking hold of the older man’s cock and guiding him inside, with the kind of brazen confidence that came from repeated bouts of fucking the same person.

Theon sighed in satisfaction as Oberyn took over, thrusting deeply from the outset. Theon’s head lolled back into the bedcovers sluggishly, as he rolled his hips in a lazy attempt to help. He hummed in satisfaction when Oberyn slowed his movements, to press slow and sure against the spot deep inside Theon that made him insensible in seconds. Oberyn sucked possessive purple kisses all along Theon’s neck and shoulder as he fucked him achingly slowly. Unheeding of all Theon’s demanding whines for more. Gradually working them both into a frenzy of sweat and profane words as they slammed over the edge.

Afterward, while Theon was dipping a soft sponge into the fresh clean water he had poured into his silver bowl, Oberyn spooled through the clothing, hanging neatly in his mahogany wardrobe.

“You should wear these,” he said imperiously, selecting a two-piece in sky blue.

It was a sleeveless waistcoat with tails at the back, and a row of neat silver buttons down the front, with matching Dornish breeches. The breeches were baggy and loose, but caught in at the ankle, gathering the material together to give a singularly distinct look.

“Those are _obscene_ ,” said Theon, because it was true; the material was incredibly expensive Myrish fabric, luminant and sheer.

“The şalvar are have a long ancient tradition in Dorne,” Oberyn protested, dropping the chosen garments across the back of a chair.

“Your daughter has a pair of these,” said Theon, plucking at the offending breeches, “As do some of the stone-faced guards. None of their clothes are transparent.”

“None of them are intending to flaunt their beauty,” said Oberyn flippantly, as though it didn’t bring a flush to Theon’s cheeks, to be spoken about in such a manner.

“Your daughter already thinks me a whore,” Theon moaned, “I’ll not give her more stones to launch at me.”

“Obara is frustrated with everyone,” Oberyn said, dismissive of Theon’s worry, “You are not particular in that regard.”

“You ought to find her a husband, then she might not be so _frustrated_ all the time.”

Oberyn snapped out a hand and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to his rear. Theon yelped, turning big wide eyes on his lover.

“Don’t tell me how to raise my daughters,” Oberyn chided, “Now dress yourself; we’re going to be late.”

“To what?” said Theon, but gained no answer, as Oberyn marched out with only a smirk thrown over his shoulder.

Sighing heavily, and eyeing the blue outfit in disgust and mild trepidation, Theon ran a bone comb through his hair, then decided to at least try it out. There was nothing stopping him from taking it back off.

*

“I look ridiculous,” Theon hissed, tugging the tight waistcoat down, in an attempt to preserve his dignity, to no avail.  “Why didn’t you tell me your brother was returning today?”

“You look ravishing,” Oberyn countered, “So stop fussing.”

He caught Theon’s twitching fingers up into his warm brown hands, raising both of Theon’s hands to his mouth, to press a kiss to each.

At the gatehouse, Doran Martell was assisted from a wheelhouse, into his special wheeled chair. Theon felt like he could melt into the tiled ground in mortification. He’d had to forgo smallclothes, realising the breeches came fitted with a shorter under-layer, which served as such to preserve some modesty. Still, Theon wished he had stuffed another layer beneath, no matter how it rumpled the fabric unattractively when he tried. Oberyn left his side to greet his brother, leaving Theon exposed. Across the terrace, Obara sneered at him. Theon immediately straightened up with a smile, suddenly feeling brazen. Years of smiling at everything the Starks could throw at him, was great practice for being unmoved by her scowls.

Doran’s returning household contained many men Theon had already met, when he travelled from King’s Landing to Dorne. Including Ser Deziel Dalt, the Knight of Lemonwood and head of his House, who had once had the audacity to hint that he would like to join Oberyn between Theon’s sheets. That night, the sour Dornish red wine flowed free and thick, to celebrate the safe return of the Prince of Dorne to his chosen seat. Theon found himself sprawled on a padded chaise, eating grapes from Oberyn’s fingers, with half the buttons of his waistcoat undone, without much knowledge of how he’d gotten there.

Somehow, the talk turned to sea-faring, and Obara immediately took the opportunity to needle him.

“They say the Ironmen are fearsome reavers, pillaging and plundering wherever they go,” said Obara, “But I see none of that spirit and fire in you.”

Theon shrugged his shoulders, supremely unconcerned with the views of an old maid who trotted about like a heifer in men’s breeches, with a permanent scowl on her boyish face.

“We’re of salt and rock,” he said obtusely, deliberately misunderstanding her words, “There’s no fire in us, Drowned God be praised. That way madness lies, so they say.”

She snorted, unimpressed. Glaring at Theon, as he rose from his seat purposefully slowly, stretching sensually before bringing his hand to trail delicately along Oberyn’s shoulder. There was certainly fire enough in Obara’s eyes, as she followed his movements with a hate-filled look.

“The Ironmen fight with axe and mace, but you wield neither,” she observed, “What does Balon Greyjoy think of his only son, I wonder? If he cannot even defend himself.”

“I’m far too deep into my cups to spar with you now, Obara,” said Theon, with an affected sigh, as though saddened by it.

“Though if Symon might oblige me?” Theon said with a small, titillating smile, holding out an open palm for the bow of a Martell guard he’d caught staring at his arse, on more than one occasion.

With only a flicker of a look in Oberyn’s direction, the guard obligingly handed over the weapon, slinging the quiver of arrows over Theon’s back. He shivered when the cool leather strap met his fire-warmed skin.

“Hmm,” said Theon, running a reverent hand over the ornately decorated wood of the unfamiliar bow, “I’ve never used a Dornish bow before. I wonder if it handles as well as my own.”

Whirling sharply, Theon loosed three arrows in quick succession, a hair’s breath between the drawing of each one. Each hit their mark with deadly accuracy. A brace of fowl slumped over; one had been skewered through the eye. The third arrow was lodged in a tiny yellow scorpion, which had been scuttling along the ground close to Obara’s feet. She yanked the arrow out of the earth, scorpion and all, levelling Theon with a flatly unimpressed look. But Theon smirked, seeing the hazy respect in the eyes of the others lounging around the fire-pit.

“My father is a bitter old man,” said Theon, “Clinging to customs far outdated, unwilling to admit the tide has turned. I do not hold too much stock in his opinion of anything.”

Obara’s nostrils flared, but she acknowledged his words with a jerk of her chin. Theon did not doubt the was a long way to go before she trusted him, but a flimsy truce was all he needed. Relinquishing the bow and arrows back to their proper owner, Theon slinked back to his lover. He allowed Oberyn to draw him into his lap, though lords of note remained seated near them. Theon could not help but shiver, when Oberyn settled a proprietary hand on the bare skin of his stomach, causing the silk waistcoat to ride up, baring a strip of pale skin to the cool night air. Oberyn nuzzled the hair at the base Theon’s neck, eliciting a giggle that Theon would deny the existence of, when he was sober.

Apparently that was too much for Obara, who rolled her eyes with menace and growled; “If you must fondle him, can you not make use of your perfectly good chambers, Father?”

“You are right, daughter,” Oberyn agreed, “Come Theon, it’s time we retire.”

Theon obligingly hopped up from his lap, reaching back to take hold of Oberyn’s hand, his indecent breeches rustling temptingly with every swish of his hips.

“Ser Deziel,” Theon called out, seized by a sudden desire to irk Obara further, “Will you not join us?”

If Oberyn was shocked, he did not show it. He gently released Theon’s hand to slide one arm behind him and pull Theon close. Oberyn settled his heavy hand on Theon’s hip, and gave it a squeeze. In pride or reprimand, Theon could not tell, but he supposed he would find out soon enough, as Oberyn led him back to his bedchamber, the lucky Ser Deziel following behind them eagerly.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“The cruelty of it is almost unfathomable,” said Oberyn softly, his words somewhat muffled by the position of his mouth against the skin of Theon’s soft back.

Theon was laying on his stomach, watching the twittering birds fluttering back and forth between the orange trees outside the open windows.

“I never thought Ned Stark a cruel man,” Oberyn continued, “Ignorant, bull-headed, yes, but never cruel.”

“It wasn’t spite that motivated him,” sighed Theon softly, sick to the back teeth of these discussions.

Since the revelation of Jon’s birth, it had been all anyone talked about. For moons now. Ever since Doran had received ravens from the Northmen, begging for Dornish support. Theon was tired, tired of hearing people’s opinions on it, tired of feeling resentful toward Jon for not being the bastard nobody he was supposed to be. Tired of hating Ned Stark even more than he already had a right to, for tricking them all, making them all fools for treating the rightful King, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and everything else, like a bastard. What gave Ned fucking Stark, the second son of an overly-ambitious Northern prick, the right to make them all into ridiculous fools? How Lady Catelyn must hate him now, for dying before he had a chance to explain himself.

Theon had no doubt she was furious with herself for sharing Lord Stark’s bed so frequently to beget him so many children. She could hardly claim that she had ever been disinterested or lacking in love toward Lord Stark. Her humiliation was total and public. Even Theon wasn’t cruel enough to wish he had been there to see it, despite how little he approved of her regard for him.

“To take the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and raise him as a bastard,” Oberyn pressed, “You do not call that cruelty?”

Theon sighed heavily. Despite ruminating on exactly that, Theon felt the need to take the opposing position on the matter, if only to cease the talk going in circles once again.

“He was protecting Jon from Robert Baratheon,” he pointed out with a soft moan as Oberyn began to knead the muscles in his back.

“Hmm,” Oberyn hummed, unconvinced, “Lord Stark trusted this Lord Reed of the marshes to keep the secret, but not the boy himself? The crannogmen are secretive creatures, not well known outside your precious North. Lord Reed could have named Jon Snow for his trueborn son instead, and none would have known the difference.”

“I’m Ironborn,” Theon asserted, “I do not claim the North as precious to me. And at the time you speak of, House Stark was down to three blood members and the Lady Catelyn. It makes perfect sense that Lord Stark kept Jon close to him. Jon was all that remained of Lyanna Stark.”

Theon rubbed his face into the featherbed in an effort to get comfier. Oberyn snorted in regard to his words, incredulous and sceptical as he always was, whenever Theon denied his love for the North. Theon hated that his motives and wants always appeared to be so transparent to the older man. But he supposed that Oberyn's wisdom came from being a well-travelled and highly socialised man. Theon’s travels were unimpressive in comparison, and his youth was never more obvious than when he was denying truths they both knew to be evident.

“You may not claim the North, yet they would claim you.” Oberyn whispered. “Did you know Robb Stark begged Doran not to take your life, when your Father started ravaging the Northern coast? He offered riches, and the hands of his brothers and sisters if you were returned unharmed.”

Theon squirmed, unable to ignore the warm feeling of appreciation he got from those words. It was heartening to know Robb cared so much, and yet he need not have worried. And Theon did know of it already. Doran had actually showed Theon the missive he had received from the Lannisters, demanding Theon’s head, when the Iron Fleet moved on the North to take advantage of the war. Stood in that exotic solar, decorated with wooden panelled doors that were covered in tiny glassless windows of the Seven-Pointed Star, Theon had very nearly shamed himself by vomiting. But he had managed to calm his stomach long enough to meet the eyes of his sure-to-be executioner.

Doran had smiled at him gently, his lined eyes soft and warm.

“You cannot fear I will do as they bid, sweetling,” Doran said gently, “Or do you believe me so false? Do you believe all we have shared was a lie? You must think me a very talented actor.”

“No-” Theon stammered, still shocked that anyone could be so honest about their intentions.

For all the Northmen blustered about being less deceptive than the rest of Westeros, they were just as prickly and dishonest about their motivations or the price they were willing to pay to achieve their goals, he had found. That belief was only vindicated when the lengths Ned Stark had gone to were made public. But even before then, when Theon was stood in Doran’s solar, he did not think the Prince of Dorne’s fondness for him would be enough to save him from a decree from the Crown.

Since being at the Water Gardens, Theon had teased and flirted with everyone who would allow it, growing in confidence in Dorne. It amused him that most here permitted his attentions, though he rarely progressed beyond heavily flirtatious insinuations. Theon had no desire to shag every willing body in Dorne. He was merely revelling in the relaxed rules of propriety here, after years of living in the dour, serious North.

It was also fun to see if he could coax Oberyn into a show of possessiveness, or even jealousy. It was a game Oberyn indulged him in; ‘punishing’ Theon with a reddened arse, for being a wanton tart. The only time Oberyn had cautioned him, was in keeping his conduct respectful towards Oberyn’s elder brother. Rather than the intended effect of warning him off, this one man prohibited from Theon’s attentions, suddenly peaked his interest.

Since laying with Oberyn, Theon had begun developing an appreciation for the male form. (Or perhaps it had always been there, and he had just stopped ignoring it. It’s not as if he had been insensible to the looks of others. He had certainly always known that Robb and Jon would grow to be more handsome than say, Hullen, the Starks’ master-of-horse.)

Theon was a quick learner in the bedroom. Now he knew how to seduce a man. Even a reluctant one, with a strong sense of propriety and honour. Theon used his new wiles mostly for good, wheedling favour and goodwill from Dornishmen, purely for the game of it. It was no more difficult to turn his big, sea-green eyes on Doran and smile coquettishly.

But Theon soon learned that simpering and feigning interest in the man’s fading looks was not the route to take. With Doran Martell, Theon needed only to give him his honest attention outside boring political discussions, and favour him with flirtatious smiles. In return, Doran indulged him with knowing looks. He was clearly aware of what Theon was doing. That Theon’s smiles were not an honest invitation or indication of interest, but rather an experiment regarding his newly acquired abilities.

Yet Doran allowed it, regardless. As if he were bemused, but somewhat charmed, that anyone was even attempting to curry favour using such an obvious method. Though they were not lovers, Doran seemed to appreciate the attention. He looked on Theon kindly, indulgent of his somewhat controversial manner. They enjoyed pleasant conversation. Theon often joined Doran in the shade when he watched over the joyful children splashing about in the pools, and Theon desired respite from the sun.

The Prince of Dorne’s wife had abandoned him, and it appeared he had no lovers. It seemed none dared even attempt to seduce him. Or perhaps they were put off by his age, or chronic illness.

There was a time when Theon would have scorned such signs of weakness also. More interested in robust, young bed partners. But he had lately been a resident of King’s Landing, where strong, beautiful people were also some of the most foul, cruel and irritating fools Theon had ever encountered. Theon now had a greater appreciation of simple kindness, since being in the Capital. Many of the fancy Southroners there had even scorned his birth. It was as if they saw being Ironborn akin to being a bastard. Not so in Dorne. It was a relief to be somewhere that your ow character and ability to hold a clever conversation, were more important than the reputation of your kin.

The strange Southron customs and ignorant attitudes in King’s Landing had pushed the Northern household to cling together closer there. At least until they began making friendships and alliances with the nicer members of court. Theon and Jon had even grown closer, given a situation where they were surrounded by potential enemies of a more serious nature than their childhood feuding. After enjoying weeks of scorching Dornish sunshine and the accepting nature of the inhabitants, Theon had even written Jon a long and rather heartfelt letter. Detailing how he had come to have a greater appreciation for Jon’s dour face now he no longer saw it on a daily basis, and that his patient, brooding manner was actually sorely missed.

Theon outlined as tactfully as he was able, how pleasant the Dornish people could be towards those of differing stations. And how blazing their fiery tempers were. How when Sansa was wed and Jon was free to leave, Theon would be very pleased indeed if Jon found himself in a position to travel further South, before the North called him home. Jon’s reply was a little later than expected; leaving Theon disappointed in the interim. He feared that his words had been mistaken for jest or merely scoffed at, and Jon had been so displeased with his letter that he wouldn’t reply. Oberyn had teased him for his sour mood, and Theon had spit fire at him for it (until his lover flipped him onto his stomach and fucked the venom out of him).

Jon’s answering letter, when it came, was true to his nature. Having none of Robb’s youthful passion or Sansa’s flowery exhilaration, nor even Bran’s sweet simplicity. It was neatly written, cautious in nature, and dutiful in praise for the aspects of the Reach he approved of. The few sentimental lines about the possibility of a truer friendship blooming between them, Theon would always cherish, though he would never admit it. Their tentative exchange of letters soon grew into a healthy correspondence.

Jon had been intent to hold true to his word, promising to visit him when Sansa was wed, and Jon always held to his word. Theon was saddened that it had been delayed by the advent of war, but he had no doubt Jon would follow through with his promise, once he had won back his rightful throne.

Which was probably the main reason why Doran had kept Theon alive, for his friendships with Robb and Jon. The Dornish hated the Lannisters for their part in overthrowing the Targaryens and killing Princess Elia, their beloved Martell heiress. As soon as Theon understood that Doran was not going to comply with the Crown’s orders, he realised it was his connection to the North that saved him. Long before Jon had been revealed as the true heir to the throne, (which honestly put Jon in a precarious position with the Dornish, who were within their rights to hate him for the part his mother played in Princess Elia’s abandonment and death), Theon was considered an asset. He was the Young Wolf’s closest friend (and former lover if Prince Oberyn was to be believed). If the Dornish intended to join the war, they would sooner do so against the Lannisters with an ally that they knew more of, due to Theon’s very nature. He was well-liked, an amusing, sensual and hopeful creature, not a brow-beaten bitter misery, like any prisoners of the Lannisters would be. If Northern enemies, taken as prisoners, turned out as well as Theon, Doran and Oberyn could reason, then did that not prove the Northmen were men to be trusted?

After Theon had read the contents of what were supposedly King Joffrey’s words, Doran had calmly taken the slip of parchment at tossed it into a nearby brazier. He said firmly that the Lannisters had no influence in Dorne, and Theon breathed easily again.

Now, they were on the eve of a conference between Dornish lords. Many had arrived to hear if Doran would announce his intent to declare for Jon or Daenerys Targaryen. The foreign Queen had unexpectedly burnt Stannis Baratheon and all of his kin, even young Shireen, out of Dragonstone. The Lannisters were clinging to the Throne by the marriage of King Tommen and Margaery Tyrell, but the West had fallen to Robb’s forces, and the Vale had finally declared for House Stark. Dorne had remained ostensibly neutral all throughout, but that was about to change. But they had also sent ravens to the Northern forces promising sanctuary to any amongst the Stark-Tully-Arryn alliance who fled capture from the Lannisters, if needed.

“Robb’s always been soft-hearted,” Theon admitted softly, as he languished in these last moments of calm before the Dornish began to debate who was the better potential monarch to follow.

“He loves you,” said Oberyn, in a tone that brooked no argument, in response to Theon’s continued reticence.

“As a brother,” Theon insisted, to which Oberyn clucked his tongue and pressed another kiss to his back.

“So you claim,” said the older man before rolling away, to lie flat on his back.

Theon stretched out like an idle cat, lifting himself only enough to flop down on his other side, facing his lover. Still lying on his stomach, with one half of his face pressed into the warm sheets cradling his lax body.

“Is Arianne terribly disappointed, do you think?”

Doran had been hoping to make her Jon’s Queen, but the Stormlands had snapped him up already, before the negotiations between the allied North, Riverlands and Vale began to try and woo Dorne again.

By all accounts, Loras Tyrell’s influence over Renly Baratheon had divided the Stormlords between Stannis and Renly, but after Renly’s death they had flocked to Stannis. Yet Stannis was not known as unyielding for no cause; his new religion caused him to burn those who remained faithful to the Seven as sacrifices, even his own wife’s kin. There were many Stormlords who had fled back to their keeps and to hide away until the outcome of the conflict was clearer. It seemed reasonable to Theon that many had decided to attempt to beg Stannis’ forgiveness if he won the Iron Throne. But Daenerys Targaryen had proven to be just as bad as her father, burning children in her pursuit of power, and now those Stormlords were very glad to align with House Stark and Jon rather than with the Khaleesi or the Lannisters.

Jon had married Lady Alana Estermont, a very sound political move. She was a cousin to the main branch, and therefore a cousin to House Baratheon of Storm’s End and King’s Landing both. Alana was not a direct descendant of Ormund and Rhaella Baratheon, meaning she had no Targaryen blood herself, but the smallfolk would not know or understand that. Everyone knew Robert Baratheon’s mother was an Estermont. The lords and peasants both would simply see a claimant to the Throne that seemed to unite House Targaryen with House Baratheon and won the Stormlords for Jon’s cause.

With the Vale finally persuaded to abandon their neutrality, the Lannisters had only the Reach and Crownlands to call up, as the West was in Robb’s chokehold. His new wife being the daughter of a Lannister of Casterly Rock made the Westerlords a little less frightened of throwing down their arms and finally surrendering, once Twyin Lannister was dead, apparently by his own son's hand. The Crown's armies were well trained, but they were no match for the might of the armies combined against them, surrounding them from all sides. Even if they sent for sellswords from Essos, Daenerys' forces were blockading the Blackwater, and there was no guarantee they would break through. Cersei was not the type to allow her son to sue for peace, and there was no doubt a massacre was going to take place in the Crownlands before the year was out.

“Arianne will be satisfied now she is assured that her rightful inheritance of Dorne will be upheld,” said Oberyn eventually.

“But Doran will be wanting something in return for Dornish support,” Theon reasoned, “A position on the small council for Prince Trystane, perhaps?”

“That is very likely,” Oberyn said, “Though a promise to wed the future heir to the Iron Throne to Arianne or Trystane’s eldest child would be better. Arianne will lead Dorne well. But she would have made a terrible Queen, though I would deny it to any outsider. She is too impulsive, too quick to anger.”

“Am I an outsider no longer, then?” Theon asked cheekily.

“You are my paramour,” Oberyn said decisively, “And you have proven yourself worthy of my trust. No one could replace my Ellaria, but you have not tried to. You both occupy equal spaces in my heart, something I would never have thought possible.”

Theon ran a sultry hand down Oberyn’s stomach, stopping when he reached the beginning trail of dark hair below his navel. Rubbing softly at this spot as he considered Oberyn’s admission.

 “Does that mean you’ll be wanting me to return to Dorne with you, once all the war is won and all pompous ceremonies are done?”

Oberyn regarded Theon seriously for a long, poignant moment. His brown eyes were dark pools that Theon had still not learnt to read reliably. With uncharacteristic caution, Oberyn lifted a hand and gently tucked a lock of Theon’s golden red waves behind his ear. Theon’s hair was getting over-long, and would need to be cut soon. With all the hubbub that came with plotting to conquer a throne, there hadn’t been time for more than cursory shave, of late.

“You are of course free, to do as you please,” said Oberyn softly, “And I understand if your heart calls you North.”

Theon shook his head, closing the distance to place a slow, sweet kiss on Oberyn’s welcoming lips. It was not heated, unlike most of their demanding kisses.

“You’re too good to me,” he lamented, “You shouldn’t be so- so-”

“Accommodating?”

“Generous,” said Theon, “Caring. You’re always treating me like I’m, I don’t know-”

“Precious,” Oberyn interrupted him again, sliding further down the bed and closer to Theon, smoothing a large calloused hand down Theon’s naked back.

Since the other prominent lords of Dorne had arrived in the Water Gardens, warmongering and postureing, Oberyn had been so busy with negotiations and dealing with the practical aspects of the Crown’s declarations, that time for trysts had been snatched whenever possible, quick and unsatisfying compared to their usual long languid fucks. Though there had been one particularly memorable tryst against the back of a door. They were so impatient that afternoon that Theon counted himself lucky Oberyn had fucked him inside his chambers, away from prying eyes, though it was a close thing.

Theon was confident that Dorne would not declare for the usurper Queen, when Jon and Robb’s good natures and heavy support from the remainder of Westeros was assured, especially since it was rumoured that Daenerys had killed Quentyn Martell rather than consent to marry him. She must be as crazed as all the inbred Targaryens, Theon thought as Oberyn ran his hands languidly up Theon’s thighs, and began to peel down his smallclothes. Who burnt a potentially incredibly useful ally out of hand?

Then Theon thought no more of House Stark and their allies, Jon and his inheritance, and what Doran was about to declare. Oberyn’s tongue teased his length, and his last reasonable though was how lucky he had been, that they had been in King’s Landing at the same time. To think Theon might never have known this kind of pleasure, that he might have returned to the North and married some frigid Northern girl, or had his head lopped off because of his father’s disregard. What a crying shame that would have been. But it was a road not taken, and possibilities just not worth pondering, when the man Theon just might love was ever so willing to share his love and life with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that commented! I really appreciate your words of encouragement and enjoyment of this fic and rarepair :)


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